


On Interruptions and Indian Food

by aegle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, Romance, early writings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 19:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7545957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aegle/pseuds/aegle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Remus Lupin exists in a state of deep denial, Nymphadora Tonks is a poor housekeeper, and both agitate one another tremendously. (Set sometime during Order of the Phoenix.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written **Feb. 2005**.

**March 10, 1:15 p.m.**

He was listening to Dylan in his bedroom when she entered, catching the scent of cigarette smoke that was not entirely displeasing. She liked this penchant of his. It made him more real, somehow. She also liked to see that look on his face: eyes closed as he exhaled, lips forming an "o" as he leaned back in his worn desk chair. When he opened his eyes they were half-lidded and murky, and he smiled a sort of lazy grin. Good. He was in a good mood.

"We're going to Yorkshire."

He paused, elegant fingers holding out the smoking roll of paper only centimeters from his mouth. "We most certainly are not."

"Day after next. Weather's shit, so pack warm." Why she had added this, she didn't know. The man certainly didn't need mothering. A rough shag, true, but not advice from a twenty-something with hair that would make an epileptic go into fits.

"What happened to Kingsley? Thought he was covering that." He rose from the chair, snuffing out the cigarette in a blue glass ashtray. The stubs made a miniature forest of sorts, she thought idly. She moved to take his seat; drew her legs up into the chair and looked at him with a quirked eyebrow.

"Ministry work comes first, you know."

"Ah. So how does the 'we' factor?"

"I volunteered."

"Considerate of you."

"I'm a considerate person."

"Close the door."

She did, with a slight movement of her wand, and she grinned as he leaned over to kiss her neck.

"I could say you were a distraction and have you reassigned," he murmured against her jaw.

"You won't." Fingers in his hair, threading through it. "You won't, because you want me to go with you."

"That's rather presumptuous."

"Hmm, but true." The wall clock chimed, out of tune, but appropriate. Lunch breaks had limits. He released her with a touch of agitation, wearing the look of one whose routine had been interrupted countless times before.

"I'm on duty tonight," he said offhandedly. _So we won't be able to finish this_ , said his tone. 

She studied him for a moment. "Tell me you want me to stay, Remus."

"Why should I do that?"

"Because I want to hear you say it."

"Go back to work, Nymphadora Tonks. Stop hanging about this place."

"All right then. Fine with me."

She rose from the chair, leaving him leaning against the edge of his desk. She was halfway down the hall when he opened the door and said, sighing somewhat, "No, wait. I don't want to have to catch up with you at the bottom of the bleeding stairs."

She turned, tapping a finger to her lips. "You used to be eloquent."

"Your hair used to be green."

"Ah, romance!" She put a hand to her head, fluttering her eyelashes at him, and he frowned.

"Please, stay."

The corners of her mouth turned up in a satisfied smile. "There now. That was lovely." He shook his head, but she remained in the hall, shrugging her shoulders a bit. "Wish I could, too. After all that. But I can't."

His mouth dropped open slightly, and her grin widened. "But I got you to say it, didn't I?"

"Right," he muttered, retreating back into his room.

"Yorkshire, Thursday," she called out, bounding down the stairs.

**March 11, 2:35 a.m.**

(found scribbled on a piece of parchment atop his bureau)

_Come to my flat. I don't care what time it is._

_T._

**March 11, 2:41 a.m.**

Takeaway Indian food and citrus-scented candles. His nose tingled as he moved past her small kitchen table--plain wood painted bright green. Her flat assaulted his senses. Oranges and reds, paper lanterns above him and half the contents of her wardrobe strewn about over countertops and chairs. A skimpy pink bra was draped over the arm of her sofa. That he'd seen before.

He'd long since given up pondering the ultimate question of _why_ she held any interest in him, mainly because he didn't understand exactly what it was that made him want her. Stepping over t-shirts and knickers seemed only to amplify the insanity of his present situation. It was not, at this point, love, as he didn't know if such an abstract term even existed. Companionship, perhaps. True enough, there were elements about her that he'd grown fond of. That satisfied little mewling noise she made when he'd done something particularly good in bed. Her hands, surprisingly dainty, with fingernails coated in some outrageous color of nail polish. The nonchalance she constantly exuded, sometimes slipping into the bathtub with him, or draping her legs over his lap while they sat on the sofa.

She slept deeply, and he'd already turned her bedroom doorknob before she woke, already a smile forming. Without light, the room looked very calm. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe.

"Something you wanted?" he asked casually. "Must have been fairly important, for you to leave me a note."

"You are--" she reached over to turn on a lamp, "--supposed to go over these before we leave." Holding up a stack of papers, she waggled them around for him to see, and gave him a cheeky smile. "Top priority."

"Work _always_ is, Nymphadora." He caught her eyes, enjoying the grimace the name produced, and moved to take the papers from her hand.

"Touché, Remus," she allowed, and stifled a yawn. "Now, you great sod, get into this bed."

"Would that I could, but you see, I've responsibilities to the Ord--" He let out a laugh as she grabbed his jumper, tugging him down onto the soft sheets. And then, his mouth was on hers.

**March 11, 7:29 a.m.**

(beside her coffee pot on the back of her 'things to do' list, to which he has added the name "Remus Lupin" in small script between 'buy milk' and 'floo E. Vance')

_You snore most beautifully, Nymphadora. Dinner at Number Twelve tonight? Dung would greatly miss you, should you decide not to come._

_R._

**March 11, 10:57 a.m.**

(sent by obese Auror Department owl)

_And what about you?_

_T._

**March 11, 11:24 a.m.**

(returned by same harassed-looking owl)

_Oh, yes, I should imagine he would be disappointed if I were not there either._

_R._

**March 11, 12:36 p.m.**

(this time delivered by a healthy tawny)

_You are a wanker. See you at six._

_T._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written/published Feb. 2005.

**March 11, 2:58 p.m.**

He walked through Bermondsey Square in the afternoon and passed by a rose-colored parasol, decorated with elegant brushstrokes and leaning against a stack of worn-out hatboxes.

_(Tonks would like that.)_

It was quite simple, really, the thought that entered his head. It arrived and departed as easily as reading the morning headlines or stepping out to see that the weather was fair, no need for an umbrella. Of all the oddities and trinkets he'd passed, the clocks and silver spoons, bright statues of the grinning Buddha, plug-in paintings of the Last Supper that lit up Christ's head like a happy Christmas light, he'd neither cared nor stopped to examine any of them. London was full of antique markets, each outfitted with an assortment of treasure that more often than not proved to be rubbish. The American couple he'd seen earlier would regret purchasing the "authentic" Persian rug a dealer was pushing on them, he was sure. And then there was the parasol.

That something so feminine would seem appropriate for a woman who traipsed about in worn combat boots and got pissed with him regularly on weekends was almost laughable. But there it was, swaying a bit when the wind picked up and taunting him.

He did not go near it, however, and instead continued walking, turning his thoughts to safer territory: the stack of papers on his desk at Number Twelve, the dog-eared Tolstoy on his dresser. Paper things, he found, were far easier to contemplate than people and parasols.

**March 11, 6:43 p.m.**

Tonks stood before her basin, an wretched pea green thing with a broken hot water knob, and quirked an eyebrow at her reflection. Putting effort into this was insanity, surely.

"Fuck it," she muttered.

**March 11, 7:00 p.m.**

Remus considered, for the third time, beating Mundungus Fletcher over the head with a nearby wooden spoon, but controlled the urge again and took a long drink from his glass, letting the ice clink about. Dung, who had insisted that take-out was a shit idea when he himself was a culinary expert, was now puttering around the overly warm kitchen, looking amazingly out of place in the apron Molly Weasley regularly left at Number Twelve for dinnertime meetings. 

When he turned to check on the roast, Remus could see pink needlepoint lettering that read across the front, "Devon Annual Witches' Cookoff 1983". For the last half-hour, he'd listened to Dung's off-key humming. Granted, he had managed a bizarre take on "Waterloo Sunset" for a while, but his reversion to muddled noise had been inevitable. Remus put out cigarette after cigarette into the glass ashtray in front of him, fiddling absently with a loose thread on one sleeve.

"Girlie's on time," Dung noted, casting a surprised glance at his wristwatch. Remus had to admit the man had excellent hearing; it took him several seconds longer before he caught the rustling of Tonks hanging up her coat in the entrance hall. Dung gave him a toothy grin.

"When did yeh tell her to be 'ere by?"

"Six."

"Ah, that'd explain it."

The door swung open, revealing a slightly rosy-cheeked Tonks in its wake. "Right, sorry, I--" she started, and then, upon seeing Mundungus Fletcher raise both oven-mitts in greeting, abruptly switched to "Never mind, then." She looked quite pretty, Remus thought, with her hair curled like that, but then she was looking at him with an expression of irritated realization.

"You said six."

"Indeed. And here you are."

"Remus, you've no faith in me. Wotcher, Dung." 

Dung gave a muffled "Lo" from the stove as he hunched over to remove his roast.

"You know that you're supposed to cook food in that thing, and not your head, right?" Tonks asked him casually, and Remus turned to see that the wizard's head was, in fact, perilously close to the warm oven. 

Dung gave a low grunt before straightening and saying, "Look at 'er, will ya?" He tottered over to Tonks, arms out to present the roast.

"What am I looking at, exactly?" Tonks asked curiously, eyeing the fruits of Mundungus's labor with some hesitancy. It held its stance, wobbling slightly, and she took a step back, apparently not ready to challenge the roast any further. Remus laughed aloud and Dung feigned insult, jerking back the platter and plonking it down on the table with a loud _humph._ He bent over to inhale deeply and came away with a frown.

"Fine. Get yer take-away then, yeh bastards, but bring back a lot of samosas." He sighed. "And more wine."

Tonks, however, had moved on to other things, eyes bright. "Is that bourbon?"

"I was savin' it, but Remus got into it." Dung waggled his eyebrows in Remus's direction, saying only half-discreetly, "Good thing you're 'ere, too. Edgy one, 'e is. I think 'e's nervous about your romantic evening. Seems jittery to me."

"Only when you're singing, Dung," Remus said, snuffing out a final cigarette. "Have a glass, Tonks? I'm sure he won't mind his stolen liquor being consumed by a dinner guest." He poured her a glass without waiting for a reply, holding it out to her absently and rising from his chair. When she met his hand to take it he lifted a finger to one bouncy brown curl beside her cheek, comfortably out of view from Dung, who was continuing to lament over the roast.

"You're looking rather lovely tonight."

She grinned, drawing away from him and saying in tones of mock surprise, "Oh, a compliment?"

"I am capable of them, yes."

"Want to pop out with me, grab some food? There's a pretty good Indian--"

"Get your coat."

**March 11, 7:16 p.m.**

He kissed her almost instantly after walking out of Grimmauld Place, beneath the dusty streetlamp, and the game they played, he knew, would continue longer than he'd anticipated. He wasn't kissing to simply feel someone else's mouth against his own. He was kissing _her._ And again, he thought of parasols.


End file.
